During life I wanted to be buried in a mystery.
On a western estuary where seabirds nest.
To drop into a piece of muck and shell, unnamed.
Wind, low clouds, rain and shafts of sun. Monks, poets, vapors of the deep.
Now where do I want to be buried?
Without an urn, there will be dirt that my ashes will disturb.
Why an urn at all?
Can’t you burn into nothing?
Isn’t the sky what I expected to become?
Does gravity hang on to bones like a registry of comings and goings.
Where to be buried, where to be thrown: from what mouth sing.